


8 Ways To Say I Love You

by LoseInhibition



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-04
Updated: 2013-09-04
Packaged: 2017-12-25 14:09:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/954019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoseInhibition/pseuds/LoseInhibition
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Or 8 times John tells Sherlock he loves him and 1 time Sherlock says it back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	8 Ways To Say I Love You

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a fluffy drabble I wrote because I saw the poem 8 Ways To Say I Love You by R. McKinley and thought it was cute.

8 ways to say I love you  
By R. McKinley

_1\. Spit it into her voicemail, a little slurred and sounding like the shot whiskey you downed for courage. Feel as ashamed as you do walking into work in last night’s clothes. Wake up cringing for days, waiting for her to mention it._

John and Greg have been sitting at a bar drinking beer for the past hour or so. The main topic of conversation has been Sherlock, as is customary with their now almost weekly pub meetings.  
"Jesus, John, you're like a bloody school girl with a crush." Greg says giggling, his words slurring slightly and maybe they're both a lot drunk at this stage.  
"Yeah, I am." John mumbles to himself. Greg hears it anyway.  
"We all know you're in love with that bastard. I think you should tell him, mate."  
Even in John's inebriated state he knows that's the stupidest fucking idea he's ever heard.  
Despite this, moments later John finds himself downing a shot of whiskey, picking up his phone and calling Sherlock.  
"I love you." He regrets it instantly as he hears the drunk slur of words that comes out of his mouth. He hangs up and crashes at Greg that night. And a few nights after.

 

_2\. Sigh it into her mouth, wedged in between teeth and tongues. Don’t even let your lips move when you say it, ever so lightly, into the air. Maybe it was just an exhalation of ecstasy._

Finally Greg kicks John out of his flat. Dreading the return to 221B John walks slowly up the stairs, trying to make as little noise as possible so as not to alert Sherlock. When he has built up the courage to open the door, he looks around nervously and sees alert eyes staring at him from a chair. Seconds later he finds himself being pressed against a wall, soft, plush lips moving against his. John wraps his arm around the lanky body and maneuvers their way towards the sofa, not breaking the kiss.  
He sucks at Sherlock's pale neck and when he lets out a particularly long and delicious moan he presses and open mouthed kiss to the red, slack mouth and breathes out a sigh that is vaguely reminiscent of the words 'I love you'.  
The kissing continues as if the words were not said.

 

_3\. Buy her flowers. Buy her chocolate. Buy her a teddy bear, because that’s what every romantic comedy has taught you. Take her out to a nice restaurant where neither of you feel comfortable and spend the whole night clearing your throat and tugging at your tie. Feel like your actions are more suited to a proposal than the simple confession of something you’ve always known._

John feels stupid. He's in a suit and tie and he and Sherlock are sitting opposite one another at a fancy restaurant. Neither of them say much which is normal, but today the silence is awkward and unbroken and John can't bring himself to say anything to make it less so.  
When their first course arrives, a dish John can't even pronounce but Sherlock said impeccably, it's tiny and unsatisfactory.  
Suddenly Sherlock is taking his hand in his.  
"John. This food is rubbish. I demand to leave now."  
John nods and they pay and leave. John feels close to tears with disappointment and mortification as they walk along the streets; Sherlock's hand no longer in his.  
"C'mon, John. Lets just go get some Chinese."  
They decide to eat at the dingy restaurant, their moods having changed drastically. They talk animatedly about cases and Sherlock deduces people for John.  
When they leave, hand in hand, they're both giggling happily.  
John wants to say the words that are on the tip of his tongue but knows it could ruin the night that had only just managed to recover.

 

_4\. Whisper it into her hair in the middle of the night, after you’ve counted the space between her breaths and are certain she’s asleep. Shut your eyes quickly when she shifts toward you in askance. Maybe you were just sleep whispering._

They've had sex for the first time.  
John lies on his back, Sherlock's head is on his chest, long pale legs wrap around his own and a beautiful hand on his chest.  
John can remember, Sherlock needy and debauched beneath him. His hair black from sweat, sticking to his forehead, plush lips red and wet, eyes darkened so all John can see is a sliver of pale blue. Begging and repeating John's name over and over like a prayer.  
John smiles fondly at the tired figure wrapped around him. The breathing has evened out and the chest rises and falls rhythmically against John's side.  
He pulls Sherlock closer, holding him he buries his face in the dark curls and whispers, once he is certain he's asleep, I love you.

 

_5\. Blurt it out in the middle of an impromptu dance party in the kitchen, as clumsy as your two left feet. When time seems to freeze, hastily tack on “in that shirt” or “when you make your award-winning meatballs” or, if you are feeling particularly brave, “when we do this.” Resume dancing and pretend you don’t feel her eyes on you the rest of the night._

They're chasing after criminals, sprinting hurriedly down alleys when John suddenly finds himself pressed into a brick wall.  
"Sherlock? Wha-"  
A hand is clamped over his mouth.  
"Shh, John."  
A group of police run past them and John watches as they ask the criminals to surrender and then take them away.  
Sherlock removes his hands from John's lips and pouts.  
"I'm sure we could have caught them more effectively."  
Sherlock's body is pressed against his and John looks at his face, dissapointed with not having finished the case properly. He can't help it when his mouth opens.  
"I love-" he can't bring himself to finish the sentence and face rejection. "Solving cases with you."  
He clears his throat and repeats himself.  
"Love solving cases. With you."  
Sherlock frowns at him with an expression that looks something like confusion.  
John continues before Sherlock can deduce anything or try to confront him. "We need to go back to the yard. Come on."

 

_6\. Write her a letter in which the amount of circumnavigating and angst could rival Mr. Darcy’s. Debate where to leave it all day – on her pillow? In her coat pocket? Throw it away in frustration, conveniently leaving it face up in the trashcan, her name scrawled on the front in your sloppy handwriting. Let her wonder if you meant it._

John tries writing Sherlock a letter. He wants desperately to tell Sherlock how he feels. He knows Sherlock has hardly ever heard the words and won't know how to respond. It's selfish but he can't. He writes many letters, describing how Sherlock makes him feel, what he loves about him, everything. He tosses each one in the bin.  
John knows Sherlock will see them anyway but he doesn't care. Maybe it will be better that way. When Sherlock comes home that night he notices the letters but does not open one.

 

_7\. Wait until something terrible has happened and you can’t not tell her anymore. Wait until she almost gets hit by a car crossing Wabash against the light and after you are done cursing at the shit-for-brains cab drivers in this city, realize you are actually just terrified of living without her. Tell her with your hands shaking._

Sherlock is lying on the pavement, concussed and only just managing not to pass out. His face is bleeding from punches thrown at him and John can feel the bump forming on the top of his head from the final blow that had made Sherlock crumple on the floor.  
Sherlock had gone off to talk to some criminal without telling anyone, whilst John was with Lestrade. When John had noticed his disappearance he had gone to find him at once to see that Sherlock had fled completely. Panicking he had ran out on to the street and heard a yell.  
When he found Sherlock, the man beating him up had thrown a few quick hits and fled. John hadn't bothered to chase after him.  
Then John noticed the dark wet patch staining the side of Sherlock's coat. A knife buried into his side.  
"Sherlock. Sherlock- oh god. Can you hear me?"  
He isn't responding and the breathing is laboured and John is pulling out his phone and dialing 999.  
When the ambulance arrives Sherlock is almost unconscious and John can tell his condition is rapidly deteriorating.  
They put the stretcher Sherlock is lying on into the vehicle and John follows. He buries his tear streaked face into Sherlock's scarf and holds the white hands in his shaking ones.  
"You bloody git. I can't believe you fucking tried to chase after that idiot without us. You prat. You can't keep doing that to me. I love you too much. I love you, I love you, I love you." Sherlock can't hear him but it doesn't matter.

_8\. Say it deliberately, your tongue a springboard for every syllable. Over coffee, brushing your teeth side-by-side, as you turn off the light to go to sleep – it doesn’t matter where. Do not adorn it with extra words like “I think” or “I might.” Do not sigh heavily as if admitting it were a burden instead of the most joyous thing you’ve ever done. Look her in the eyes and pray, heart thumping wildly, that she will turn to you and say, “I love you too.”_

Once Sherlock has made a full recovery they return to 221B.  
"John." He breathes desperately the minute they get into the flat. "Make love to me, John."  
John's eyes shut with the effort of trying to compose himself.  
"Sherlock, you just got back."  
"No. Please. I need you now."  
Sherlock is a mixture of adorably needy and incredibly hot and demanding; John can't help but take his hand and all but drag him up the stairs to his room.  
Once their clothes are out of the way, John lays Sherlock down on the bed. He kisses his mouth, his forehead, his eyelids, his nose, his cheeks. He lets his lips trail down, to his neck, to his chest, to his stomach. Each kiss is a declaration, each kiss is the word I love you pressed into Sherlock's skin.  
A while later, they lie curled up facing each other, body's damp with sweat and the cloth John used to wipe them down.  
They gaze into each others eyes, fingers brushing over skin.  
John's hand cups Sherlock's face.  
"I love you." He says.  
He waits, composed, unflinching.  
Sherlock blinks before reaching out and bringing John's lips to his, kissing him sweetly.  
He pulls away, his features softening, his expression... Loving.  
John watches as his mouth opens.  
"I love you too."


End file.
